


Baby Just Say, Yes.

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Fortnight 2014 [23]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paninya is intent on asking the cute blonde in shop on a date, and ambushing her after the physics lecture seems like the ideal place. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Just Say, Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "panwin modern college au where al is teaching particle physics and paninya is workin up the courage to ask out the cute blond gir! + name it after a taylor swift lyric i dare u!" I saw this prompt in my inbox and nearly squealed; it's been a while since I've written for these two but I love 'em. Gosh.
> 
> Written for FMA Week 2014. Prompt 14: "Whatever You Like". Well then, here's what I happen to like.
> 
> I had to google Taylor Swift songs for this. You all had better recognise my sacrifices here.
> 
> Unbeta'd/unedited/etc. Enjoy!

“Now imagine, if you will, that the membranes are ‘floating’ in this multiverse.” The physics professor holds the sheets of paper aloft, one in each hand. They crinkle softly. “Cold and empty, with a temperature just a hair above absolute zero and a matter density of, say, a single string in a quadrillion cubic light-years.” His students lean forward, some scribbling furiously in spiral notebooks bent and worn, others clacking loudly on laptop keys. “Gradually, the force of gravity _between_ the two membranes, however small, draws them together. As they near one another they accelerate—” He moves the sheets together. “—until they collide with _tremendous_ velocity, and hence, energy.” The papers touch; someone claps. “The very energy that gives rise to the proliferation of matter in the membranes. A new big bang!”

The students scribble, clack. Setting down the sheets, the professor rattles off a series of quick reminders—”Glad you enjoyed this preview, class; we’ll start on the maths and derivations Thursday.”—and the class shuffles down, almost robotically. The doors fly open.

With her heart throbbing in her throat as if threatening to come bursting out of her mouth, Paninya steps back from the doorway. She scans the crowd, one by one. Breath trapped in her lungs, prepared to drown at any second.

The stream thins. Students flock to subsequent lectures, to the mess hall, to their dorms. When the girl with the blue eyes and the green bandanna constantly hanging out of a pocket never appears and the doors begin to swing close of their own accord, Paninya stares. Fishes out the crumpled scrap of paper from the pocket of her loose jeans. Rechecks the handwritten schedule, compares the number of the lecture hall and the time.

Her bookbag weighs down her shoulders as though filled with lead. Or the stuff of a neutron star. Paninya turns, sneakers squeaking, and wonders whether she could beg enough for Free Taco Tuesday to transform into Free Tequila Tuesday.

She could ask. The professor. V. Hohenheim, by the plaque, with graduate assistant A. Elric. Pulling open the door with a ferocious _tug_ she strides in: If she looks to have a purpose, then the professor might assume her a member of the student council or a peer facilitator. Paninya takes exactly two and a half steps before freezing.

Perched on the edge of the desk is the girl with the blue eyes and the green bandanna she’s playing with in her lap. She leans back, propping herself up with her left hand; Paninya’s eyes widen at the exposed softness of her throat, and it takes the vast majority of her willpower not to blurt out something as stupid as “ _Can I leave a hickey on your neck?_ ” directly in front of the professor of physics.

Directly in front of the— _fuck_ —professor of physics. Young. Handsome. Charming. _Blond_.

He lounges by the girl’s side, running his fingers absentmindedly through his bird’s wing bangs, and the girl laughs, leans on his shoulder, taps the heels of her boots together. Of course. Of _course_ a girl that kind and clever and brilliant—she’s the valedictorian of their class from Paninya has heard—and drop-dead _gorgeous_ would seek someone beyond some engineering major in ratty sneakers.

Her hands ball into fists at her side. She turns to leave, to pretend that she somehow entered the wrong lecture hall, to conceal the blush of humiliation rising in her face, and then the girl calls out.

“Oh! I’m sorry, did you want to ask Dr Hohenheim about something? Because he’s not here today!”

Her jaws snap together with sufficient force to leave her head pounding. Naturally: the young blond is her _boyfriend_. Naturally: the girl would never notice some _chick_.

The boyfriend opens his mouth; Paninya resists the urge to punch him, if only because he seems nice enough. “I’m Alphonse,” he offers. “Alphonse Elric. Call me Al.”

“You’re her boyfriend.” Paninya barely hides her grimace.

“Huh?” Al and the girl exchange confused glances; she snickers. “No way. She’s more like my adopted _sister_ or something. I can’t imagine dating you, no offence.” The girl slams him in the ribs, affectionately, and he lowers his voice to a nonchalant, conversational flow: “You know, Winry, you should introduce me to your friends more often.”

 _Winry_.

“I don’t actually know her,” Winry admits, but she’s waving. Waving _Paninya_ over, for some reason that she could not fathom if she tried. “But what’s up? Come to think of it, I thought I’d met everyone in the physics program.” She blinks. “Guess not.”

As she nears the desk, Paninya feels her feet start to quiver in her sneakers: Perhaps—perhaps she’s straight. Perhaps she’s straighter than one of those damn metal rulers from shop. Perhaps she only dates people as white as she is, or perhaps she only dates _cis_ girls, or perhaps, or perhaps, or perhaps—

“I’m Paninya. Paninya LeCoulte.” She extends her hand. To her surprise Winry clasps with an enthusiastic grip that warms her to the core. Al shakes her hand afterwards, but she focuses her gaze on the girl with the blue eyes. “Um, I thought that you had a physics lecture this period, and I just wanted to. Er.” Breathe. _Breathe_ , Paninya. She can do it. She can _do_ this, fuck her, she’s _got_ this. Gathering her courage, she slams her hands down on Winry’s shoulders, takes a wild breath into her lungs, and—staring directly into the girl’s eyes—blurts out possibly the single most embarrassing string of words ever to cross her lips:

“Winry Rockbell, would you go on a date with me?”

A pause. A long pause, lengthy and deadened as forty days and forty nights of absolute silence.

Al bursts out laughing. Holds his arms over his abdomen, bows forward, chuckles to his heart’s content: The only barrier preventing Paninya from knocking his damn teeth would rests in the fact that her hands remain on Winry’s shoulders. For now. Then Winry slugs him in the shoulder. “Hey, shut up! She doesn’t know!”

Paninya doesn’t know _what_ exactly?’

Clearing her throat, Winry stands up; with the heels of her boots she’s a full five or six centimetres above Paninya in height, but she tilts her chin down; her grin—just the grin by itself—could extinguish stars and topple entire civilisations for the power of that smile.

“Of course. You’ve got a place in mind?”

“A place?” For a moment Paninya can scarcely recall her own name, much less put together coherent noises in coherent words in coherent sentences in coherent _statements_ of _fact_. Her hand dips automatically into her pocket. The crinkled brochure. The music festival. The two tickets she’s already brought a million years ago. “You seem like the type to—”

“ _H_ ’oh my _goodness_ look at that line-up!” Winry’s mouth has dropped open. She grabs the brochure, whirls around, swings her arms around Paninya’s waist and whirls _her_ around. “ _Yes_ I’ll go with you! Holy crap! Thank you thank you _thank_ you!”

Staring at the girl practically dancing in the air, Paninya gingerly pinches herself. Catches Al beaming at her. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “She’s real. Have fun with her, will you?”

“Oh.” As if comprehending a world just after the membranes collide, Paninya senses the grin spread slowly across her features. “Trust me when I say that I _will_.”


End file.
